vi. 14:

"Be ye not unequally yoked together with unbelievers: for what fellowship hath righteousness with unrighteousness? and what communion hath light with darkness?"

It was a very clear command, and could not be mistaken. And yet I tried to argue myself into the belief that it did not apply to me. For in the first place, I reasoned, Claude was not a heathen as these Corinthians were. He did not worship gods of wood and stone. He was looked upon as a Christian, and lived and had been brought up in a Christian family. But the word unbeliever, conscience answered, surely includes every one that is not a believer.

Was Claude a believer? Could I honestly say that he was a true believer in the Lord Jesus Christ? Would Claude himself like to be thought a believer? Could I from my heart say that I thought Claude was safe in Christ, resting his soul on Christ for salvation? No, I was obliged sorrowfully to admit to myself that such was not the case. But then, I argued, I am not perfect. Oh, how cold and indifferent I am at times! How full of carelessness, and pride, and every kind of sin! Who am I, that I should set myself up to be better and more holy than Claude? Who am I, that I should say Claude is not good enough for me?

And yet the line of distinction in the text was evidently drawn, not between perfect people and imperfect people, but between believers and unbelievers. Was I then a believer? That was the question: was I in deed and in truth a believer in the Lord Jesus Christ?

I dared not say that I was not, for even as I asked myself the question, a day years ago came back to my mind, a day when Mr. Ellis had been giving us a Bible lesson and had spoken to us very solemnly about coming to Christ for ourselves, and that at once.

I remembered how anxious and serious I had felt as I left the Bible class, and how I had come home and shut myself in this very room where I was now sitting. I remembered how I had closed the door behind me, and had resolved not to leave the room until I had laid my sins on Jesus, and had looked to Him by faith as my own Saviour. I remembered how all my sins had risen up before me that day as they had never done before; and how, one by one, I had taken them to Christ to be atoned for and forgiven.

And then I remembered the peace which had followed, and how, for days afterwards, life had been entirely new to me, and my thoughts, and feelings, and wishes had been entirely different from what they were before. And since that time, though I had very often grown careless and indifferent, still I had never been happy when I was not walking closely with God, and I had always longed at such times to be back in the sunshine and light of His presence again. So then it seemed as if the command in the text did apply to me.

But surely if I married Claude, I might use my influence with him for good. He loved me very much, and, as Miss Richards had said, I had more influence with him than any one had.

Was it right for me to throw away this opportunity of doing good? Was there not a text which said that husbands, "who obey not the Word," might yet, without the Word, be "won by the conversation of their wives?" And did not St. Paul say, "What knowest thou, O wife, whether thou shalt save thy husband?" Surely these verses justified me in thinking that if I married Claude, he might, through my influence, become a Christian.

And yet when I turned to these passages, and read the context, I saw that they clearly referred to those wives who were converted after their marriage—that such were told not to leave their unbelieving husbands, but to remain in that state in which they were called, and to such, and to such alone, the promise about being the means of saving their husbands applied. It had evidently nothing whatever to do with those who were converted whilst they were still unmarried, nor did it, in the very slightest degree, overthrow the clear command I had just read:

"Be ye not unequally yoked together with unbelievers—"

A command which applied to the unmarried believers, as plainly as the command in the first Epistle applied to the married ones.

And, when I began to think the matter over, with a more unbiased mind, I was driven to the conclusion that Claude was far more likely to lead me away from Christ than I was to lead him to become a believer. For surely if I had not enough influence now to persuade him to love better things—now, when he was so anxious to win my favour,—surely afterwards, when he felt certain of my love, he would not be more likely to be led in an entirely different direction. Surely I should become worse, and Claude would become no better. I should be less of a believer, and he would remain still an unbeliever.

To do evil, that good may possibly come, is entirely opposed to the whole teaching of the New Testament; nowhere is the faintest hope held out that such a course will result in good. And I could undoubtedly expect no blessing from God on my endeavours to lead Claude aright if I had acted in the face of God's command and had gone in direct opposition to His clear injunction:

"Be ye not unequally yoked together with unbelievers."

And so I felt, when I had thought the whole matter carefully over, that it came to this:

Was I willing to shut Christ out from the first place in my heart, and put Claude there instead? Or, on the other hand, was I willing to give up Claude, and hold all the closer and firmer to Him who had for years been my hope and my refuge?

Christ's love or Claude's! Which should I choose? I could not have both, for I felt that to have both was impossible. Choosing Christ, I should offend Claude; choosing Claude, I should forfeit the love and the favour of Christ. Christ or Claude—which?

A verse, which I had learned as a child, came suddenly into my mind, and looking up to the sky above me, in which the sun was once more shining, I repeated it aloud, for it seemed exactly to express the earnest cry of my soul:

"My heart is fixed, O God, Fixed on Thee; And my eternal choice is made, Christ for me."

Christ for me. Christ's smile, Christ's favour, Christ's blessing; these are my choice. Whatever it costs me, I cannot, I will not, give them up.

I knelt down, and thanked God from the bottom of my heart for showing me the clear, the sure, the right way for me to take. And then I took up my pen to answer Claude's letter.